


Gently in the Night

by holyfant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-30
Updated: 2011-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyfant/pseuds/holyfant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry has a really bad dream. Ron tries to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gently in the Night

Harry knows he really has to start thinking before he speaks. It's something that he's trying to work on, really. He's not usually known for his planning-ahead skills, even if things usually shift themselves to his advantage. When it's about life and death – yes, then his instincts take over in such a demanding way that everything else simply gets turned off. All he can do then is let his body lead and, well, he's still alive, isn't he? Privately he knows he's just lucky, really, even if Hermione usually insists he has some kind of talent. If short-circuiting his brain in the heat of action and following a sort of unpremeditated instinctual route is having talent, then yes, he does.

Not that it matters much. He thinks about this a lot at night when he can't sleep (which is often), but he's come to know that things that matter in the darkness don't often matter very much in daylight. So what if he's just a lucky bugger? He's 16 and he's still living and usually that is enough for him. After nightmares he usually just tries to think of what's around him. And he tries to think that he still lives. It sounds more dramatic than it is, really.

This time though, it's so different that simply focusing on the soft moonlight in the dorm and trying to drown out the lingering sounds and scenes of his nightmare by mentally naming the names and conjuring the faces of everyone in the dorm just doesn't work. Seamus Dean Neville Ron Harry – most times he's calmed down enough by the time he gets round to himself that sleep is closing in on him again. It grounds him in reality or something, he guesses. But this time it just doesn't work because this time it was not only fear but sex as well.

This time it wasn't just Voldemort, or Bellatrix, or even worse an unnamed despair and so many people he knows. It was that, yes, but everyone was so much closer than usual; Ginny was kissing him but she was crying at the same time, Voldemort was laughing, clawing at him, at his _crotch_ , Hermione was being passed between nameless hooded figures, screaming without sound, and then there was something going on between Ron and him that now he can't really remember, but it was intensely sexual and also awful as Lucius Malfoy was close to Ron's ear and had the tip of his wand against his neck.

It was a terrible dream, but despite the fear that clings to him as the dream's images recede he realises that he has a boner. An honest, real, uncomplicated boner – as his feeling of dread starts to pass slightly he almost laughs at the absurdity of his cock reacting like this was an ordinary sex dream. His nerves are still twanging with the intensity of the nightmare, and his body is thrumming and swimming in cold sweat. His stomach churns unpleasantly and he has to swallow a mouthful of bile. He closes his eyes for a moment to focus on the things that usually drive his post-nightmare nausea away. The feel of his pillow, which is real, everyone who is here, breathing the same air as he is softly; Seamus Dean Neville Ron – but no, because Ginny flashes into his head again, naked, crying, and then too there is Ron again, way too close to Bellatrix's crotch, absolute terror on his face –

Harry puts his hands in front of his eyes and pushes into them hard, as if the pressure could expel the dream memories, but the image of Ron stretching out his hand in a plea towards him is too vivid to push away. Another wave of nausea hits him and on instinct, he fights his way out of the tangle of sheets he is caught in and rushes to the bathroom.

His stomach empties itself into the toilet and he continues to heave even after everything he ate at dinner is gone. After a while the retching abates and he rests the top of his head against the upturned toilet lid. His eyes are swimming with tears – both from the remnants of the dream and from the vomiting.

Minutes pass. Eventually he feels relatively sure that his nausea has settled and he helps himself to his feet. He drinks a bit of water and feels better already; the dream is fading away in the mundane blankness of the bathroom and his stomach has calmed.

But fuck it if his erection isn't still there, straining against the crotch of his pajama trousers. It feels weird to still be so hard after a bout of vomiting, which is the most unsexy thing that Harry can think of, but apparently his cock has no intention of deflating. Harry hesitates for a moment, feeling decidedly unlike himself, but then gives his reflection in the mirror a small shrug. A quick wank would probably not only relieve him of this untimely hard-on, but probably also of the remaining remnants of the dream still lingering in his head.

He pushes his trousers and boxers over his hips and closes a fist over his erection. He's used to wanking quickly, not having a lot of privacy in the boys' dorm and _definitely_ not with the Dursleys, where he was always afraid Dudley would choose the exactly wrong time to come banging at his door and complain to his father about the locked door. Finishing when Uncle Vernon was yelling at him from inside the hallway just wasn't possible.

Quickly banishing uncle Vernon from his thoughts, Harry focuses instead on the warmth pooling in his lower belly as he tugs on his cock. He quickly ups the pace, feeling his arousal thicken as he imagines all sorts of bodies – what he thinks Ginny's breasts look like from his furtive glances at them under her blouses, small but firm; Parvati Patil's shapely legs, her bum tantalising in too-tight uniform skirts; Seamus' broad shoulders straining against his robes; Ron's lanky, lean torso, his hip bones peeking over his always-low-slung pajama trousers –

But then, like a vile creature lying in wait to pounce, the dream image of Ron with Lucius Malfoy's cock in his face, terror on his face too terrible to describe, flashes before his eyes. Harry snaps his eyes open and feels a horrible dread so thick he can almost taste it descend over him. The fear is back in all its intensity, like a stone sinking in his stomach. He grabs the tiled wall behind him for some support, but still slides down it to the floor and curls up in a ball, crying in earnest now – he can't help it; great, loud sobs that make his rib cage ache. He hasn't cried like this in ages; not this openly, not this deeply. All his terror, all his frustration, all his anger is fighting its way out and his body is completely immersed in the crying, tensed up.

He can't tell how long it lasts but after a while the intensity lessens and his vision restores itself – the bathroom comes into focus again as he lifts his face off his knees. He takes a few steadying breaths, stifles new sobs threatening to come up from his chest and angrily says: “Get it together, Potter,” to himself, swiping the backs of his hands across his eyes.

Suddenly, there is a timid knock at the bathroom door. Bugger, Harry thinks.

“Harry?” It's Ron's voice on the other side, in his characteristic trying-to-whisper-but-still-very-loud-voice.

Harry hides his face in his hands, head still reeling. He can feel that his crying isn't over yet and he really doesn't need Ron here right now – but still, just the sound of Ron's voice on the other side of the door is enough to make him feel better already, to make him feel like this night will end, like this isn't forever.

So he answers in a low voice: “Yeah, Ron, it's me.”

Silence, then: “Can I come in?”

Harry knows that Ron will know immediately that he's been crying, but then – he probably already heard, which is why he's knocking. He doesn't need to look in the mirror to know that he looks like absolute shit, but, well. Ron's probably seen him look worse. “Yeah, it's okay,” he says.

Ron pushes the door open with uncharacteristic carefulness and pokes his head through the crack. “You alright, mate?”

And really, Harry could've known – the sight of Ron's face, with pillow lines on it, with bags under his eyes that clearly say _I just woke up_ , with the flame of his hair bright in the dank bathroom; it makes his emotions close in him again and he starts crying anew.

Ron's body follows his head and he closes the door behind him. His approach is cautious, his expression dark. He squats before Harry so they're on eye level. Harry tries to answer his gaze but tears keep blurring his vision. He feels a little like he's drowning, like he's unable to breathe.

“Another nightmare?” Ron asks – well, it's more of a statement, really. He already knows.

Harry nods as he leans his head back against the wall, his shoulders shaking.

“Fuck that.” Ron sounds angry. “You shouldn't have to go through this all the time. Isn't Snape supposed to be teaching you Occlumency?”

It's a good thing Harry can't speak, really, because explaining why he isn't anymore would be horrible. Ron leans in and wraps him into a weirdly angled hug. As awkward as it is, Ron's concern moves Harry and his attempts to control the tears are now completely futile – because as Ron is hugging him, he can't stop thinking about what he dreamt, how Ron was, well – _raped_ , and it's the first time he dares think the word – and fuck it, that just makes everything so much worse. So much worse. He clings to Ron's bare shoulders and cries into them.

“D'you... d'you want to talk?” Ron says after a while. Harry lets go of his friend, because he can tell that the position they're in is uncomfortable for Ron. He's cried himself dry now and his breathing has steadied enough to reply: “No,” because he doesn't, shit, there's nothing he wants to talk about less.

“Okay.” Ron's expression is soft. He gets to his feet and offers Harry a hand. “You want to get back to bed?”

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles and takes it, getting up with some extra support from the wall.

Ron raises an eyebrow. “Um, Harry –” he says, and it's only then that Harry remembers that he was wanking before and that he definitely did not pull up his trousers – a fact that was probably hidden from Ron by his position.

Damn, as if this wasn't embarrassing enough already. It's not that Ron has never seen his cock before – of course he has, they live together in such close quarters that it's pretty inevitable, and it's not something that's awkward – but, mind-bogglingly, _he's still hard_ and that's not usually something he shares so openly with Ron, even if they're not too ashamed to talk about wanking to each other.

“This isn't real,” Harry says incredulously as he stares at his erection; is his cock really not connected to anything else in his body or mind? He feels utterly rubbish and yet – there it is, still full-blown.

Ron laughs the small laugh he does when he's nervous and opens his mouth to say something, then appears to be unable to think of anything. He's blushing, his reddened ears blending into his hair perfectly.

“I'm sorry, mate,” Harry says hurriedly as he stuffs his cock rather unceremoniously back into his trousers.

“It's okay,” Ron says, a bit too quickly, but he seems to mean it.

They stare at each other for a second. Ron's cheeks are as bright as his hair now, too. Harry knows he should be starting this 'thinking before speaking' thing, and this would be a good time, but for some reason, Ron's gaze makes Harry want to explain: “This dream, it was so – it was nothing like the usual, nothing. I –”

“Harry, it's okay,” Ron cuts in, shaking his head, “you don't have to explain.”

“I – I know,” Harry stammers, feelings tears pressing behind his eyes again just thinking of the nightmare, “but it's because it was about you – and about Hermione, and Ginny, and... everyone.”

Ron looks confused. “What do you mean?”

How to explain? He can't, not really. He kind of wishes he _had_ taken a moment to think before he started to say all this, but now there's not really any turning back. He sniffs and wipes his eyes once more. “You were all there, and you were all attacked. It was... worse than usual.”

“So you saw us getting killed?”

Harry registers Ron's growing confusion and he realises it must be because Ron can't possibly understand why he has a hard-on from dreaming about them getting killed – and even if it's maybe so much worse to have a hard-on from dreaming about them all getting raped, he somehow feels like he can't leave Ron thinking that he gets off on his friends' deaths. So, taking a breath, he says: “No. The Death Eaters, they were all... um, _having sex_ with everyone.”

Ron's eyes widen. “Wow,” he whispers. “So that's why...?” He makes a vague gesture in the direction of Harry's groin, who kind of feels like crying again at the implication and can only offer a half-shrug in response. “Merlin, that's terrible. I'm sorry, mate.” Ron is silent for a second and then his expression darkens. “It's not like you haven't already given up enough of your normality. Now they also have to corrupt... you know.”

And at that Harry can only smile at him, feeling relieved that Ron seems to understand that this is part of why he feels so terrible – right now he feels like he won't ever be able to have a wet dream or have a fantasy again without thinking about this and how wrong it is, and how evil he feels for having a bodily reaction. It feels like having another part of him be contaminated by Voldemort. But at Ron's understanding, his body suddenly feels a lot lighter and it's suddenly much more easy to imagine that this, too, will pass.

“Okay, so...” Ron is saying, “maybe I should... leave you to it?” His red face finishes the suggestion for him, and Harry doesn't have to look down to know that his erection is still making quite a noticeable bulge in his trousers. It's starting to hurt, actually. And truth be told, now that Harry's cried all of his fear out of him and now that Ron is here and his presence makes the dream seem all the more distant, his arousal is inching its way back into his consciousness again – and Ron's bare torso (exactly like what he was imagining before, only now real, warm) with the smattering of red hair on his chest and leading from his stomach down into his trousers isn't helping. It's one thing to catch glimpses of Ron in the dorm and use them as wank fodder – he's never thought of that as strange, really, as fantasy and reality have always been sufficiently removed from each other for him – but it's quite another to have Ron be there, so close, so naked, his hair so ruffled, looking at him with such a flushed complexion, _talking about masturbating_.

Harry shakes his head awkwardly. “No, I – um, I already tried. I can't.” At Ron's quizzical look he says quickly: “That's why I was crying, the dream won't go away.”

Ron's mouth is a small o of comprehension. Harry half expects him to shrug and with a clap on his shoulder send them back to their respective beds, which would seem like a logical thing to do, but Ron seems to feel as strange as he does, judging from his frown, and when he speaks Harry's sure he must have misunderstood. Because he says “Should I stay then?”, which is so impossible that Harry's sure it must be his cock sending self-selected signals to his brain for interpretation.

He blinks.

If possible Ron's face goes even redder and he stammers, “Okay, no, I'm sorry, that was... Yeah, sorry,” and he turns to open the door.

And here it is, that moment when Harry really should be _thinking_ before he speaks, but there's no way that that's happening right now, because all he wants is for Ron to _not go_ , so that's what he says.

Ron freezes, his hand on the doorknob.

And he turns around, with a strange look on his face, not one that Harry has seen before. He closes the gap between them with one stride of his long legs. He's looking at the wall, not at Harry, and Harry realises he doesn't have an inkling what to say to him now, there's really nothing to say – either they _do_ something now or they just stop here and go to bed without a word, without talking about this tomorrow. It's still a possibility and he guesses that's what Ron is thinking about right now.

But then Ron's hand is on his shoulder and his face is coming closer, and no – it really isn't a possibility anymore. Despite the many times that Harry has imagined this, as kissing Ron, _fucking_ Ron sometimes even always is the last part of his various fantasies before orgasm, he's not prepared for the fullness of Ron's mouth against his, the scratch of the beard that he knows Ron hasn't shaved in maybe three days, the almost electric jolt of arousal that goes directly from where Ron's lips are pressed against his down to his cock.

And he's too far gone already to question any of it; he kisses Ron back with such gusto that Ron is pushed back a bit until he matches Harry – it's a forceful kiss, their tongues pushing into each other, slipping out of each other's mouth and back in again.

_Oh shit_ is the last articulate thing that Harry thinks to himself, and maybe he says it out loud, he doesn't even know, because he is _so turned on_ and Ron isn't wasting any time, simply pushing his trousers back down over his hips like they were before, the friction delicious. Harry makes a small guttural sound as Ron breaks the kiss – Harry doesn't have time to wonder why, he can only groan as Ron grabs a hold of his cock and quite firmly closes his fingers around it. Harry instinctively moves his hips against Ron's fist, who seems to quickly catch on and follow the rhythm Harry is establishing. It's so different from doing it himself, because there's Ron's scent and Ron's mouth on his again, and Ron's _hands_ , which are so much larger than his, wonderful in their strangeness. Harry knows he's not going to last long and he breaks the kiss because it's almost too much to focus on while Ron is wanking him so expertly and he pushes his face into Ron's shoulder, trying to stifle his gasps.

Then, Ron lets him go. Harry's head snaps up and he looks at Ron, afraid to see a sudden realisation of what they're doing dawning on Ron's face – but it's not there; Ron looks at him like he's never seen anything so puzzling and wonderful at the same time. What he does then, Harry did not expect: he pushes his own trousers down until they fall to his ankles and brings his entire body forward. The contact between their erections startles Harry so much that he smashes his head into the wall behind him by accident. His knees feel like they're going to give out beneath him. Ron actually laughs, the wanker, a breathless laugh, as he moves his cock against Harry's and his clamping hands on Harry's shoulder begin to hurt a little. It feels – almost strange, but it also sets his lower belly on fire as Ron's hips move against his.

It's when Ron brings his hand down between them and almost wanks them both at the same time, his hand sliding up and down the jumble of cocks, that Harry's brain and cock and everything short-circuit from this overexposure and he comes so strongly that behind his eyelids everything is white, spattering both their stomachs with come. When he comes down Ron has a hand tangled in his hair and thrusts against his softening erection a couple more times before he bites down on a deep, low moan and comes against Harry, who hadn't realised but who has his arms around Ron's neck and tightens the embrace until Ron stops quivering.

They stand close together for several seconds, both gasping.

When Ron pulls back, he still looks somewhat puzzled, but Harry is comforted by the kiss he almost immediately puts on Harry's mouth.

They disentangle themselves as their breathing slows.

“Wow,” Harry says.

“Yeah,” Ron agrees. He's like a fire in the blandness of the bathroom and Harry feels a desire to just put his forehead against Ron's and stay like that forever.

“Thanks,” he whispers instead, because he knows what Ron has just done for him, and that it has definitely changed something, and that he has regained that part of him he thought was gone.

“Mate,” Ron says, chest still heaving, “you're very welcome.”

He then pulls Harry over to the sink. They wash themselves in silence. Harry can't help but wonder at the mixed come on him and how it's... unexpectedly wonderful to have Ron's spunk on him. Ron gives Harry the half-grin he knows very well, puts a hand on his shoulder and asks, “Sleep?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, feeling light, feeling as if something has been set free.

In the dorm, everyone's breathing is still light, except for Neville, who's snoring. In the sudden dark, Harry can see Ron's eyes gleaming.

The hug is like the sealing of a pact, long and warm, closer than what usually passes for their hugs (one-armed, manly – no, this is nothing like that).

Back in his bed, Harry untangles the sheets and slips between them. The night is full of wonders, as well as the possibility of fear, but that seems so remote now. He can't really think anything else other than a vague _I'm glad we both never think before we speak_ before he falls asleep, like a rock falling off a cliff, complete, deep, undisturbed.


End file.
